"tarries" poems
#there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
overwhelms unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge
A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace
Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed
The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind
An emotionally enslaved heart
tarries, marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless
Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate; vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake
It's getting harder and harder
for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree
Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp
A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil
Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas
Jesse Stillwater
June 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."
And he said:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.
13.1k
The closest I ever feel
to anything
is to the words I write.
When I am a million leagues
into the depths,
and there is nothing,
nothing to do
but carve these letters
into the floor.
No,
nothing.
Nothing more.
Words ring hollow,
and melodies fall flat,
prayers (un)heard,
another test.
This too will pass,
but while it stays,
while it tarries,
black is bequeathed behind
my eyes
my mind is marred
in manic peril
and I carve these words
into the floor
one more time
one more time
once more.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 10:07 PM UTC
Hold my hand
And lead me through
Traverse this land
Together we two.
Over unknown terrains
Under weeping skies
Through unforgiving plains
Through pain and lies.
Between grieving mountains
And screaming valleys
Feeding fevered delusions
Fraught with delays and tarries.
Beyond the hills and knolls
Hopeful of salvation
Surviving pits and falls
Not knowing the destination.
My hand still in yours
An arduous odyssey
Must stay the course
Must complete this journey.
Bright skies up ahead
Or so they promise
Soon shall pass they said
Soon will come release.
Still in this; still walking
Not soon expecting the end
Still in this; still trudging
Round this obscured treacherous bend.
Doubtful mad endeavour
I dragged you with me
When this finally is over
We'll look back and see.
Glad that we were together
Glad that together we came
Never cease from being near
Keep holding my hand, just the same.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
Within the gentle heart abideth Love,
As doth a bird within green forest glade,
Neither before the gentle heart was Love,
Nor Love ere gentle heart by Nature made.
Created was the sun,
And lo, his radiance everywhere held sway,
Nor was before the sun;
Love doth unto all gentleness aspire,
And in the self-same way
Doth clarity unto clear flame of fire.
Love’s fire is kindled in the gentle heart,
As virtue is within the precious stone;
From out the star no glory doth depart
Until made gentle by the sun alone.
When the sun hath drawn forth
By his own strength all that which is not meet,
The star doth prove its worth.
Thus to the heart, by Nature fashioned so
Gentle and pure and sweet,
The love of woman like a star doth go.
The reason Love in gentle heart doth stay
Is why the fire unto the torch-head flies,
Burning as he doth fancy, bright and gay,
And were too proud to do so otherwise.
But Nature’s cruel scheme
Contrasteth Love as water, flame; as heat,
Quelled by the cooling stream.
In gentle heart doth Love his bower divine,
Since like with like must meet,
Thus diamonds in the iron of the mine.
Upon the mire the sun sheds his bright rays,
That is still vile, nor doth the sun turn cold:
“Gentle am I by birth,” the proud man says.
33 He, mire, and the sun, gentleness, I hold.
Let no man think that he
May be possessed of gentleness, although
He boast a king’s degree,
Unless a gentle heart be found in him:
The water is aglow
With stars, and yet the heavens have not grown dim.
God the Creator in heaven’s mind of grace
Shines brighter than before our eyes the sun;
There it is given to see Him face to face,
Whence in their beauty the skies, serving one
Just God, to Him do turn
And the blest end of primal love fulfil.
Thus the truth which doth burn
In my sweet Lady’s eyes she should make clear,
Of her own gentle will,
To him who in her service tarries near.
My Lady, God will say: “Didst thou not fear,”
(When my soul standeth yonder in His sight:)
“To pass the heavens and seek Me even here,
Vain love pursuing with My image dight?
To Me doth praise belong
And to the Queen of Heaven, who from her sphere
Of glory endeth wrong.”
Then I could plead: “Thy angels up above,
O Lord, like her appear;
I did not sin in giving her my love.”
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC
I will be waiting for you,
even when all ages gathered and gone,
even when time tarries not.
When moment flies in race.
When seasons run and all are lost in pursuing,
i will surley wait for you.
Even if it takes the rest of my days.
Even if it takes the rest of my life.
I will wait for you.
No matter how long,
as long as u be mine,
even when no attention is given,
when all at self-will lost.
I will wait for you,
i will wait for you,
i wll wait for you.
This i promise you.
I will wait for you.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
Spirit of pleasant memory told me;
(to) keep writing
So
sweetly fell her words
to the crests of my shoulders
she lifted me with high breath...
"the world was waiting".
Selfishly I seek that soul of a day,
such that creation no longer tarries
save at least one precious moment,
sooner, than what was writ afore.
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
The wind is crying while the moon rides high
The trees whisper their secrets one to another.
A lone figure, a woman it would seem
Makes her way under the velvet sky
As into the dark she travels further
Passing quietly, as if in a dream.
Always on time,
She never tarries.
The night is her veil and her cover.
She is trapped in time
And her shattered heart carries
The loss of her long-dead lover.
They were bound by their hearts.
Their love was true.
They had no worries for tomorrow.
But the dark lay ahead,
They would never be wed.
The future would only bring sorrow.
The time was set forth
When these two would be one
Before the coming of the autumn's first frost.
But before they were married,
Dreadful news to her was carried.
The love of her life had been lost.
He was traveling at night
Through the woods near the town
Where he wanted to make her his wife.
But the night brought him harm
In the form of a storm.
The might of it robbed him of life.
The rain from the clouds
Made the streams too unruly.
They made their own way across the ground.
In their terrible sway
They washed her lover away.
It was morning before he was found.
She put away her gown of white
And donned a veil of black.
She wore it the rest of her life.
She would never recover
From the loss of her lover,
The one who would make her his wife.
The years went by,
But her heartache remained.
Her pain had made her its slave.
When her life ended,
She was buried next to her intended,
A heart-shaped wreath on her grave.
When the moon rides high and the wind cries
As the trees whisper their secrets to each other,
A lone figure, a woman in black it would seem
Will make her way under the velvet skies.
Into the dark she will travel further
She will move, as if in a dream...........
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC
An uncolourful evanescence of passion,
tarries beneath the surface of your smile.
Though you seem sinful in your beauty,
a frustration fondles your thoughts.
An emotion runs thick through your skin,
and yet,
you act placid, serene.
Like some other worldly angel,
unaffected by the inconvenience of human sentiment.
Fluid, even movements occupy your person,
as if fury calms you,
as if mind and cadaver function impartial to the other.
I long to catch sight of some small imperfection,
but only your dearest may see you sincere.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
There fared a time ‘we’ were the vital thing,
yet now the case is fair it’s ye and her.
My role perhaps was harrower of Winter
while she’s the water, seed and sun of Spring.
God forms right plans and sorts His unique tools
as junctures of our lives wed intertwined,
but when they’re o’er we are not undermined
nor forced to feel we’re slyly played as fools.
For Providence has granted precious gifts
which by His grace we learn and grow and flow’r,
and these need ne’er be lost in parting hour
nor poisoned by the bitterness of rifts.
So rise our wings with richer, brighter hue
to soar upon Christ’s love which tarries true.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:01 AM UTC
What care I, so they stand the same,—
Things of the heavenly mind,—
How long the power to give them fame
Tarries yet behind?
Thus far to-day your favors reach,
O fair, appeasing Presences!
Ye taught my lips a single speech,
And a thousand silences.
Space grants beyond his fated road
No inch to the god of day,
And copious language still bestowed
One word, no more, to say.
1.4k
Sometimes I imagine
Sasquatch on my porch;
A watchman
For my home.
Eyes open wide-
-He peers down the road,
Making sure
We are safe.
From the break of dawn
To streetlights turning on
Sasquatch tarries.
Always watching.
He sees the deer;
He sees the neighbors;
He sees the mouse
Running from her car
To beneath our deck
Where he stands;
But Sasquatch
Does not stop him.
He just stands there
Watching,
Waiting,
Staring down the street...
Hoping
-Maybe one day
He will come alive
To stop the mouse.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC
There he was
Laying on his back bleeding
Grass beneath him
In the median, lifeless
Hat still on his head
Quickly I prayed
Breath return to his lungs
Capture the air that now fails him
Heart layed dormant
Not a sound in the chambers
All is still
As the calm before the storm
In the eye of the hurricane
No sounds to be heard
No sense of movement
False sense on serenity
Though now in perfect peace
He rests while sirens blaze
Love that is unfailing
As he sleeps now surround him
Thoughts of his family
On his arrival they wait
Path crossed unaware
They may anger he tarries
Sudden yearning in their hearts
Together we all came
Unable to continue our journeys
Affected by this sight
In this untimely death
Humanity we found
But where were we all
When no one watched
Making sure he safely crossed
In such a hurry we always are
We rather **** than a minute late arrive
Guilt now encircles your soul
Consumed by your mistake
An accident, never you meant to harm
Dreams that now haunt
Blunder everlasting
Slow down dear love
Our brothers are running
His mother is crying
Her son she's buried
Memories of him now fading
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 4:00 PM UTC
There was a time
when time was not time—-
For me,
For you.
The water it collects and tarries
Carries itself.
you whisper
“stay”
my thoughts linger to go
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 8:23 PM UTC
~~~
Tis a gladness found in sadness
mostly pleasure
wince of pain
From an odor round the barroom
none the boys could e'er explain
Like a billowed line of washin'
after gentle fallen rain
Tis the wail of spring befallin'
on a barfly
oh ... the shame
~
Lo
there's homework
I'm the tender
to a list of things that broke
Ere the boss be sharing surely
words no poet ever spoke
Lazy good for nothing ******
paint the fence and fix the gate
You want a pint ... you must be kidding
Plow the forty ... 'fore it's late
~
Down the misty path of memories
thoughts of Kelsey's brew appears
In a vision almost godly
round a table rests my peers
And no memory tarries longer
forceful
clearer
sweeter
stronger
than ol' Kelsey pouring liquor at the bar
I sheds a tear
~
Summer sadness tans bare shoulders
to replace the winter's shun
And the kids each day
they greet me ... Morning Dad
YOUR IT ... then run
Lord
I never knew that Heaven
'twas the place beyond my wall
Till I heard my children laugh
while toasting mallows in the fall
~
Though breath of Heaven
washed the aftertaste
of Kelsey's from my life
And forever I'll be holding ... dear
new memories
with my wife
I am angered at the sign
that hangs atop ol' Kelsey's door
. . . NO BARFLIES . . .
. . . CASH RESPECTED . . .
~
Sure
His wife now runs the bar
~~~
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Don’t try to inspire me,
When you yourself need inspiration.
Droplets everywhere,
He lays down,
Without a care.
Forceful earthquakes,
Shatters his mind.
Volcanoes erupt,
What a strong write.
Enthusiasm leaps,
Anger prevails.
He chuckles,
And evil laughs.
No one can hear.
Determined to conquer,
Yet struggles to arise.
Restless in his motion,
Tear glands to dry to cry.
Feast on the creatures,
That he can see.
Roll over from those,
That he can hear,
But can’t see.
Driven by fear,
But afraid to love.
Tarries in the dark,
As the stars lit,
The sky above.
The moon never in sight,
It’s always night.
©
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
but my still, heavily-beating heart
just longs for a little more—
unsatisfied
with what is graciously given.
and yet-
appeased by things all too simple
not to enjoy.
where my cravings lie,
my assuagement lie elsewhere—
in Your word &
in Your people.
so as I sit & wait for the
signal Lights to beckon,
a sojourner among its radiance,
I will instead turn to meet the Bridegroom
who tarries for me
at the other end of the ocean.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
Hope
is a benchwarmer,
a mere spectator-
wistful as the game tarries,
useless as a goal jockey.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
What author ever brought stigma
To the metal meat of argumentation
Based on green fly baking pies
With themselves in them
The steady guillotine raises the mundane
To the the top of the pops
As Capricorn is still seen as the leading star sign/
Boombox tarries the accolhaud of prim, caught
Out of the corner of the eye
smoking signs
While vampires need to throw their teeth into art
Where they discover black chalk
And as my mum says ' some pregnant women crave eating coal'
And Become narcissistic mothers.
In the rudeness of the magic however,
There is a burst of both lazy
Equally inspired
But with the correct resources never aggravated tapestry.
As the galaxy sighs.
Feb 3, 2025
Feb 3, 2025 at 4:53 PM UTC
I love my jimjam
Jabama jabamers
You calls ‘em PJs
Some call ‘em pajamas
My jimjams are old
And all busted up
There’s a hole in the sleeve
Where my elbow snuck
But they still fit well
Real snug as can be
Though threads from my cuffs
Do dip in my tea
But the buttons still hold
And the pocket still carries
They keeps me warm at night
When the winter tarries
So I pop on my jimjams
‘For I hop into bed
And I curl up real tight
Once my prayers are said
I love my jimjam
Jabama jabamers
You calls ‘em PJs
Some call ‘em pajamas
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 3:44 AM UTC
*why are you so easy
to walk past
but then so difficult
to forget?--
a cattle brand that
sears each waking moment;
scathe dreams of night:
what memory tarries
are rumpled bed-
clothes at sun up
and scribbled sheets
sojourn inconsolate
on a litter-strewn desk*
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
Poised on current of splendor
Flight feathers outstretched, strong
Fledgling hears his mother's call
Brave release draws baby bird to song
Swooping beyond slipping branches
Resplendence in clear air carries
Joy of freedom from high nest
Moment in waiting no long tarries
Whisp of breeze in taking
With life pulsing heart and wings
A humming bird can't pretend
That he is at all another thing
Constant is our evolution
And rainbows do reappear
Some encircling breathtaking beauty
These ruby-throated dears
Hum and buzz of fluttery wonder
Nectar is yours for taking
Joie de vivre as you spin by me
Jouissance and felicity making
You whisper in my ear and tickle
Tempting words for me
You know my meaning may be fickle
As I find, you've set me free
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Life is but a passing daydream,
that seldom does make sense.
I often wonder if I should wake,
what memories carry hence?
Yesterday a fuzzy recollection.
Tomorrow a cloudy ocean.
Today as clear as clear can be,
as preconceived as any notion.
Understanding is sometimes found,
when clarity meets truth,
but its hard to say if it was real,
once time and space have moved.
Life is lived by a routine,
that seldom ever varies.
My thoughts are often found,
where routine seldom tarries.
I awake some days to find,
the yoke of expectation
****** upon my shoulders
without want of explanation.
Hours of those days grind by,
in meaningless frustration.
Watching my potential pass,
while occupied by occupation.
The yearning to be free,
that stirs within my soul.
Is gently lulled asleep again,
by pastimes I am sold.
Life is but a passing daydream,
that seldom does make sense.
I often wonder if I should wake,
what memories carry hence?
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 6:54 AM UTC
In the bleak winter
under hurrying clouds,
the wind blowing, bitter
gusts through trees’ barren boughs.
A small house: Its nooks
in new Gothic style
once housed the old books
of a forgotten king for a while.
It had been a library,
a place filled with words;
now all that here tarries
are the winds and the terns.
Its glassless peaked window
looks out on the sky
to waters that flow
by the small palace hard by.
The window is incised
in stone shaded gold —
a warm tone that belies
its touch that is cold.
The red palace is crowned
in gold and white marble.
They shine out, gowned
in hues that spite winter’s pallor.
Now blue waters and birds
add color to the scene
that fills this blank window
with nature’s stained glass serene.
This house has stood waiting,
empty in wintriest times —
now it’s filled by nature’s painting
brushed in hushed hues divine.
Jan 14, 2025
Jan 14, 2025 at 2:28 PM UTC
"And his voice carried on."
The words echo like a spirit through the air of the desert land.
They continued the search for him at every dawn.
All that's endured are legends of this special man.
The village awaits, while the trekkers search ... And search. They tarry on.
Spent, they return as the sun sets ... The town chants: "And his voice carried on."
What was once a world of blue and green is now arid & bare.
Society collapsed under the weight of false ideologies and greed.
Souls are choked in the grasp of a common stare.
They starve for truth more than any carnal need.
And his voice carried on.
They've heard his words are power.
They've been told his voice has golden wings.
They've heard his essence towers.
They've been told and told ... They've never seen ... They've only been told these things.
Civilization is naught but a sentient species stained.
Only a village remains.
The villages tarries on.
They used to scorn him.
Now they mourn him.
The trekkers search on,
In pursuit of the fountains that flow from his speech.
As the people thirst on,
Desperate for the day he comes within reach.
He is alive.
And he is free.
He thrives.
I know it ...
Because I am he.
The last poet.
And his voice carries on.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC